


Somebody to Love

by Raichel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Also Warlock and Adam are mentioned, M/M, Some pining, The Bentley is more fond of Queen than Crowley, and some fluff, but it also has some suspicions of what songs he might like, is this what the kids call a songfic?, just a hint of angst, mostly I'm just entertained by Crowley's potential relationship to this song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 09:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19971763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raichel/pseuds/Raichel
Summary: The song has been haunting Crowley since it first hit the radio waves. He's got a handful of memories attached to it now, some good, some bad, many embarrassing.





	Somebody to Love

Crowley first heard the song on the radio. It was the mid 70s, when the Bentley didn’t yet have _The Best of Queen_ to turn any and all cassettes into. It was still getting used to cassettes, anyway (for the first year or two nothing was amiss, but then it started by swapping the contents of tapes, and steadily evolved into transforming everything into various queen albums, before finally settling on The Best Of tape once it was released). Crowley had a love-hate relationship with popular music as it was, having cursed the populace with earworms, but he had to admit it wasn’t exactly a bad song. It was catchy. Or was that another one of his demonic schemes getting the better of him?

He hadn’t paid much attention to “Somebody to Love” the first few times it played. However, even in tuning the radio the Bentley favored Queen, and the song started to stick with Crowley. After hearing it about nine times he found himself humming a few bars as he went about his demonic work (and scrutinizing his plants). 

After more than a year of hearing it regularly he had gotten fairly attached. He may have, on occasion, sung along. Perhaps with great gusto. It may have crept into his favorites, though he would never admit that he even had a handful favorite songs to anyone. Especially the Bentley. If he were to admit that he liked it at all (which he wouldn’t) he would insist that it was simply because it was a fun song. Very satisfying to belt along to. An excellent excuse to howl to music around London at great speeds. These were all the reasons he needed to like the song.

But then he got back in the car after a lunch with Aziraphale, around 1982. He flicked on the radio and for a moment, the song went only half noticed, though he still muttered along. He adjusted the mirror and shifted into gear, 

“…I spent all my years in believing you, I just can’t get no relief…” as he hit a straight stretch of road he tuned in properly to the chorus. “Lord, somebody, oh, somebody, can anybody find me… somebody to—“ he belted out with the chorus, until the realization hit him like a ton of bricks, the angel’s smile still fresh in his mind. “— _love_ ,” the radio sang as Crowley hit his head on the steering wheel hissing,

“Fuck.”

He would never admit it, even if he admitted to liking the song, but lord (er, satan?) help him, he could relate. Pining was very unbecoming of a demon.

* * *

Warlock (and in retrospect, Adam) was barely a year old when Crowley got fairly drunk and found himself clutching a karaoke mic. This was not the first time he had done this. It would not be the last. He could sing this song piss drunk and deaf by this point, so he was having a great time.

It wouldn’t have been a memorable incident at all, except that just as he hit his stride on a particularly strong “love" he choked on the note and very abruptly sobered up. He caught sight of a dash of beige entering the vaguely dark and dingy bar and he disappeared. Crowley reappeared at the bar across the room nearly instantaneously, his back to the karaoke stage, with a swift demonic miracle. It took a few minutes before Aziraphale found him, which was plenty of time for Crowley to become extremely tense.

“Hello, Crowley! How are you?” the angel greeted him, and Crowley tried very hard to look nonchalant, like he had absolutely no idea Aziraphale had walked in. He really hoped it was working.

“Aziraphale! Fine. Just fine,” he replied. “you? Being a good positive influence on the infant yet?”

“It’s quite hard to tell,” Aziraphale admitted. “there’s not much influence you can have on a human so small.”

“You’d be surprised,” Crowley retorted, “they’ll knock over anything, and they’re very susceptible to bribes.”

“It’s gotten blessedly quiet in here,” Aziraphale said, “when I walked in it was quite loud, someone singing karaoke—“

“I have no idea what karaoke is,” Crowley said. “it was probably some drunk idiot. Care for a drink?”

* * *

Then, of course, there was the fire. The all-consuming fire that, for a moment, stole away everything Crowley had left. The burning bookshop. He had barely registered the song playing. It was probably the first time in years it had gone unnoticed. With everything happening, from the fire to the apocalypse and back, he didn’t even begin to remember it had been playing. It was an awful surprise when it came on the radio again and he could almost smell smoke. He shut it off within two seconds. He didn’t expect to ever listen to the song again.

* * *

He was inspecting the plants he’d scattered around Aziraphale’s book shop when the song came over the radio. It had been years since the almost-pacolypse. He was just engrossed enough in watering a plant that he didn’t really notice it (couldn’t go over-watering it and blame it for wilting when it wasn’t its fault. Aziraphale would have a fit). He was pleasantly surprised to realize he was singing casually along, no ghost of smoke or flash of fire in the corner of his eye. He began to sway along to the song, and lament his musical woes to the plants. He liked to imagine they served as the backup singers.

“Everyday,” he told the plants, and the radio echoed back,

“ _Everyday,_ ”

“I try, and I try, and I try!” he wailed, spinning on his heel before turning to another plant. “But everybody wants to put me down, they say, I’m going crazy! They say I got a lot of water in my brain, I’ve got no common sense, got nobody left to believe in!” He threw his head back as he sang along to the chorus of ‘yeah’s, until breaking into air guitar with the interlude. “Ooh, somebody!” he sang, “Somebody! Anybody find me…! Somebody to love!” he practically screamed, leaning dramatically on the nearest banister. As his breath petered out he became aware of chuckling a few feet away. 

He snapped to his senses to find Aziraphale standing in one of the many odd doorways in the shop, smiling at him. Crowley was torn between feeling very embarrassed and finding the angel very cute. Neither were very becoming feelings for a demon, but that didn’t matter so much these days. Crowley cleared his throat, trying to return to acting normal, even as the backup chorus on the radio continued to chant, “ _Somebody to love_.”

“Hello, Angel,” he muttered, not quite meeting Aziraphale’s eyes.

“I didn’t think you liked this one,” Aziraphale noted, stepping over to him.

“It’s… complicated,” was the best answer Crowley had, only a few inches between them now. It was nice how close they were these days.

“Have you?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley’s mind scrambled to figure out what he was asking,

“What?” Crowley asked. He was not figuring it out.

“Found somebody to love?”

Crowley laughed, and a knowing smirk hid in the shadow of Aziraphale’s smile.

“I have,” Crowley assured him, pulling him into a kiss. 

The radio continued on, chanting “ _find me somebody to love_ ,” and even as the angel and demon kissed, Crowley’s hips still swung along with the song as it built to the next chorus. By the time the song swelled to its final chorus he’d been knocked down onto the couch and was no longer paying attention. 

Oh, lord, did he have somebody to love.


End file.
